


Training

by Menirva



Series: Tribute Verse [2]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barsad's angry little soul is blossoming. He only needs to wipe away the dirt of the city so his boy can fully bloom for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After he had first played with his beautiful little Robin, had drawn out the words that he had known had been on his little bird’s tongue all along, always swallowed back quickly, always clinging to that last bit of his past, his Robin had clung to him, shaken through to the core over how Barsad had broken him down, had lanced through the last festering bit of this city that still stuck to his soul, how hard and yet how strikingly simple it had been for him to cry out for Barsad, for daddy, to obtain his bliss.

Robin hiccups and looks at him, pitifully lost after the bittersweet high of his orgasm has left him; Barsad will help him find his way as he always does.

So he holds him, soothes and rocks him even while his sweat and come still streaked across his clenching belly. His little bird’s nails easily find his back and bite deep into his flesh. Barsad's back is a testament, a canvas of memories of his time with his baby bird, who is so scared of losing him that he has left a multitude of crescent scars on his back, some so old, so faint from their first days together, others fresh and scabbed over still. Barsad finds them suiting and does nothing to discourage it, has grown so used to the feeling of those wicked, chipped nails sunken in his skin at night that he is certain he would no longer sleep well without them.

"W-why?" It is the only coherent thing Robin can manage to choke out, his upset and confusion making his words a mumble, a barely-there slur that is muffled against his neck.

"Because you are mine, Robin," he tells him simply, plainly. "Because I cannot let you ever forget that."

He draws him back to look at him, but there is a heartbreaking whimper of protest and Barsad relents, keeping him close against him. He can be soft when it is needed. He whispers affections to his baby bird that have him sighing against him as he lifts him, heavy and yet still light, carrying him to their bed. He does not wash him. He lets the fluids that stick to their bodies serve as a reminder. His baby bird does not complain; he only wants to be held.

When he sleeps, those nails are back in his skin, digging deep. Robin's breath puffs over his neck, and he is as at peace as he ever looks as Barsad strokes through his thick waves.

His baby bird wakes up with respect on his tongue and an empty tummy, supper having been missed due to an early turn in, and he gratefully shovels down a bowl of hot oats and dried fruit, the breakfast they have nearly every morning. Meals are stringent, wholesome. Robin needs to grow well and healthy. 

Treats come, but only on rare, special occasions. It caused such fuss when he was young and only knew the taste of processed meats and sugary cereals. Now he scrapes his bowls of lentils and vegetables clean, his plates are always emptied without a fuss. Food is fuel, and the occasional ice cream cone or candy bar is savored. They make his eyes light up in a way that says he remembers each and every one Barsad has gifted him.

His dark eyes flick up at him across the breakfast table. Barsad feels them with each bite of food. His Robin wonders what will happen today, if the night before will be forgotten, if he will be touched again. Barsad can tell by his eyes that he is not sure which he would prefer. He is shy, still. Barsad finds it sweet that he can still by shy, and he will savor it, savor Robin as he teaches him new things because something has shifted between them now. This is not something to be let go, and Robin will understand that soon, will go to him for this as he does all of his other needs.

But for now, he only watches beneath dark lashes, politely does the dishes without a word beyond a 'yes sir' that training will start in fifteen minutes sharp. He is not a second late from scrubbing clean in the bathroom and rushing up to the rooftop. When the weather is as bright as it gets in Gotham, their sparring takes place there. It is their second home; there is blood on that roof from rough training, empty gun casings from endless target practice, all other residents wisely keeping away.

Lessons are brutal, cutting, and Robin's nose is dripping crimson onto the gritty gray rooftop before it is through. He is relieved. He understands that whatever happened does not mean Barsad will treat him as weak, that he will never treat him as soft when it is time to train. It is a lesson Robin needed, and after training, Barsad patches him up as he always does. Then it is time for softness if Robin seeks it. He often does, and it is a hesitation, now, but he desires it too much after the rough knocks. He looks down at his blood being wicked away by grit and gravel and he lays his head in Barsad's lap.

For all of his hard shell of rage, the sharpness he brings out of him in their bloody battles on the rooftop, scraps across the old rough floor of their apartment, Robin is still soft. He was still an innocent for ten years, growing up on comic book heroes and faerie tale fantasies. They shaped him before Barsad could and Robin will not say it to Barsad, but he knows his bird's heart. He knows that he cannot imagine taking a life with his own hands, not directly. He is well aware of the plans to raze Gotham to the ground, but it is a different thing; comic book heroes cause casualties all of the time, destroyed buildings, destruction caused for the greater good. Even seeing Barsad execute those who killed his father in front of him has not changed this, it has only cemented him as his savior, something done to defend him.

It is sweet, soft, a small bit of child-likeness that still clings to his baby bird, and he considers it as he curls Robin's hair through his fingers.

It cannot last.

If Robin expects more than gentle strokes through his hair, they do not come. Barsad is far more patient than he. He can wait, wait for the right opportunity.

The right opportunity comes in two days.

What has happened is not spoken of, but it is constantly on Robin's mind. Barsad can almost see how his brain turns it over and over again to examine, to think about again and again until he makes himself anxious enough that Barsad can see it in his training, how when he fires his Beretta the aim is off, the starburst left in the target just shy of where Barsad has ordered him to hit, barely noticeable to any but his own sharp eyes.

Still he waits, and then he is rewarded. It is no surprise that it only takes two days for Robin to wake him in the dead of night. His harsh, quick pants are familiar now as he has turned in Barsad's arms, quick pulls to his cock to milk out his come as quickly as possible and with no finesse to it, just a means to an end, something every young boy needs at times. If he were a kinder man, he would only hold him a little tighter as he desperately tries to jerk himself to completion.

Barsad is not a kind man, and instead his slender fingers wrap around boney wrists, stilling them, pulling them down to Robin's sides as he gasps, half at the loss of pleasure, half in mortification over being caught in such an act. His mouth opens and Barsad shushes him instead, sparing him from having to think of something to say.

“I am not upset, my little bird,” he soothes quietly, and Robin is flushed from head to toe. His hands clench up into fists and his entire body is rigid against Barsad's, though not nearly as rigid nor as flushed as his cock as it leaks onto the mattress, neglected.

“There is nothing wrong,” he continues to comfort, and Robin swallows hard, a fine tremor running through him as he holds his wrists pinned to his sides. “You simply did not understand that you were being given a new rule.”

Robin's breath catches at that. Robin knows all of the rules. He knows them by recitation. There are precious few, and those that are important enough to be listed are never broken. It is an unspoken thing, an important thing, so for Barsad to say there is a new one is nothing to be taken lightly and his brain is clearly scrambling, trying to understand how he might have missed it.

“What?” he finally asks, his tone wary even as it sounds forced out past the soft pants still rising from his chest.

“You must always ask daddy before you come.”

Robin's eyes widen then clench shut. A shiver runs through him because the word is back and with it his little bird is at a loss, but he will learn when to use it soon enough, when Barsad is 'daddy' and when he is 'sir'. Robin is quick and clever, and while he is so new to this, Barsad is sure it will be no exception.

There is resistance. Robin's head final gives a quick jerk, a no. He will be stubborn tonight, rebel against what he has already given in to. Barsad is unsurprised. He only lets go of his wrists, pats his chest.

“Then you are finished for the night, my little bird.”

The sound that leaves Robin's chest is near wounded. His young blood cannot imagine simply stopping when he is so hard, when he is right on the cusp, but those are his options and he knows now that Barsad will not budge in this. He never does. It is only a matter of waiting until Robin is ready to break for him. They both know it.

Barsad turns Robin around and the frustration is written on his face, but he will not say it yet. If it was not that word, Barsad is sure he would. He is certain that Robin would ask sweetly for it, but he is immutable. Robin must give up this word; its meaning must be altered. He must learn to kill. These are the only things left behind from this city, and both must be purged before he is ready to rise with them.

For now, he tucks his little bird up close again. His body is all stiffness and embarrassed waves of humiliation and want that roll off of him. Barsad only strokes his hair until he gives in to his need for sleep, wraps back around Barsad with a short exhale of breath. His cock is digging hard into Barsad's thigh even as he manages to drop off into a restless sort of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin tries to break the rule. It is only a sign to Barsad of how important it is that he has set it into motion. He catches him the very next morning in the shower. He is wet and dripping when Barsad yanks him roughly out of it. No tenderness is given over a blatant disobedience, not when he has caught him red-faced with his hand wrapped around his cock.

The process is repeated several times over the course of the next few weeks. Robin is a tightly wound up ball, cycling between rage and desperate want. He barely speaks to Barsad, and when he does, it is with venom on his tongue as he tries to cut him down. If Barsad had a heart, perhaps it would hurt. Now, he only laughs huskily against Robin's ear when he catches him trying again to stroke himself off in the quiet of the night. He never gets far. He is only making it worse for himself by having to stop each time. His dick must ache constantly.

But training still continues on. Barsad sends him out on his own tasks, now. He goes with his knife tucked into his boots at all times, a gun close to his chest. There are connections Barsad has set up, tenuous ones, mobsters who feel that they run Gotham, but are useful for information. He sends Robin to a pair of their lackeys with money, and he comes home with bruises.

“Did you kill them?” are the first words he asks as Robin limps in through the door frame. The shamed duck of his head tells him everything he needs to know. He still is angry over his need, but now he needs comfort. He needs to know that Barsad is not angry. That he is ok. He has never been attacked before, not by someone other than Barsad.

“We kill our enemies, Robin,” he tells him with a click of his tongue, but his boy is not ready for it yet, clearly. He has come home with the money and blood on his knife, though. That is enough for now, though it will change soon. He will not praise, but he does not scold further. He cleans him up and lets him fall into an exhausted heap in his lap. The next morning, he cuts down the men himself, slits them crotch to belly and leaves their bodies and spilled out guts where they will be easily found. A warning to not double cross him or those he sends in his place. It will be heeded. He tells his boy this so that he will understand that he has spared them nothing, that it is as though he killed them, as well. Robin is torn between gratefulness and a spark of guilt in his belly. That is how the days are spent.

But the nights are different and entail a different sort of training. Everything has a breaking point, and they both know that Robin is no exception. It is finally one of these nights, when he has been caught especially close, just on the cusp of finally being able to spend into his hands. Barsad pushes, knowing it will be tonight and that Robin needs just a little more guidance. He turns him around to face him and watches how his mouth opens and closes, how he swallows air like he is a fish out of water. He has so much need built up after days of touching without culmination.

He catches his jaw in his hand and when he squeezes Robin's mouth pops open further. He rubs his thumb across his bottom lip, a motion he has not felt for himself in years, but can remember how it grounded him, the sweet tingle it sent through his body.

“You know what you need, my little bird. You asked before. You can ask again.”

Robin's sharp teeth snap down into his bottom lip, nearly enough to draw blood, and there is a temporary defeat in his eyes. He licks over his lips nervously and the words he whispers are barely audible, stammered things that still cause his ears to tinge bright red, for the flush to spread throughout his body.

Barsad only looks at him patiently. He is not one to play games and Robin knows that. He is frustrated, and his eyes clench shut tightly when he repeats it in a more audible rush.

“Please, please d-daddy, I need to come.”

And that is where the new lessons truly start.

“Undress for me,” he whispers softly. It is not as though Robin's cock is not already bare, but that is not his goal. The order is quickly obeyed; Robin's frayed jeans, the ones he always ends up wearing to bed even though he has better pants for sleep, are tossed off onto the floor with haste and Robin is bare, making a confused noise when his daddy is not simply stroking him off as he did the first time such a thing happened.

Instead, he reaches into his pocket for something he has kept on his person for when he knew Robin would be ready. He lies on his back and he pulls his baby bird with him. He is confused, but there are no complaints about the positioning, loving how he can wrap around Barsad easily, his legs bracketing his thighs as his head settles against his chest. Barsad can feel his erection pressing warmly against his hip.

Robin has unwittingly put himself into a perfect position for this, his thighs parted, and Barsad reaches down to stroke up them slowly, feeling soft, pale skin under his fingers. It draws a shivery sigh from Robin as he pets him. It is not what he needs, but it is gentle, soothing attention. He is blissful over it, and his eyes drift shut, need forgotten for a moment with this touch.

They flare back open when Barsad's slicked thumb slowly drags across the cleft of his ass, trailing down across his hole slowly. He feels it clench shut against the pad of his thumb, and he laughs lightly at the startled noise from Robin's throat.

“What's wrong, baby bird? Do you think you won't like it?”

Robin swallows hard, his head jerking in agreement, so sure of himself. He always is when he is feeling defiant. It leaves him in a rush when Barsad caresses a slow circle around the sensitive furled skin of his opening. A quick breath is sucked in between his teeth. Barsad is certain that it is only partly from shock. He strokes again, gentle, feather-light touches, and Robin does not know what to do with himself. He makes a choked noise when the tip of his finger presses into him. He clenches up everywhere, from his toes to his jaw.

“It's not going to hurt, Robin.” Barsad clicks his tongue when he does not stop flinching and it earns a shamed duck of Robin's head, especially when he asks, “Have I ever caused you undue pain?”

They both know training is different. Training is needed to survive. Pain there is given only as a teaching tool. This is a different lesson entirely. It is to teach Robin's body its needs.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers gently. “If you do not like this after you try it, we will stop.” He means it, though he has no doubt that it will not be the case. He had been shown long ago the sensations that could be felt from such intimate play, and he has no doubt Robin will take to it eagerly, to the feeling of being filled, if he can simply relax. How can he not? He always wants everything that Barsad will give him.

Robin breathes in soft, uncertain pants, but he obeys, and Barsad tells him what a good boy he is being as he sinks a finger up to the knuckle inside of his fidgeting body. He is making unsure noises as Barsad slides it into him slowly, with gentle pressure, nothing that is too much, just enough to allow Robin to adjust. His face is scrunched up, and Barsad finds it near adorable how his face is flushed bright red. How when he carefully works in another slicked digit, his mouth goes slack, his tongue peeking out to wet over his lips nervously.

“It's nice, isn't it? Is daddy making you feel good?” He coos it softly, and Robin turns a shade pinker, the flush running down his body. The shyness is something that will not last, and for now it is something to savor. He does not answer, but his eyes are clouding, the certainty that this will never be pleasant is leaving him as Barsad begins to thrust the pair of fingers with slow, careful strokes that tease at Robin inside as his thumb presses against his rim. The next noise he makes is a new sort of nervousness, tinged with pleasure.

He praises him for it and it is soaked up like it always is. Barsad tells him that he is going to show him something nice, and then he curls his fingers, drawing them down slowly, and suddenly Robin is making a whining noise. His entire body jerks as Barsad's fingers graze over his prostate. He does not let him recover, using the sudden shock of pleasure to rob his bird of his senses, all of the uncertainty in him being stroked away by tenderly assaulting the sensitive spot inside of him.

It is not long until Robin is twitching, his hips jerking, until Barsad can feel wetness against his hip, a line of precome soaking into his pants as he tells him what a good boy he is being. He bites his lip, eyes lidding as he speaks to him further.

“You like it, don't you? I knew you would if you could relax for it, Robin. Some boys enjoy it so much that they need nothing else, just their daddy's fingers inside of them is enough for them to come. Perhaps you will manage, my baby bird.” Robin's fingers dig in tighter at the endearment. It is a soft, tender thing to say, and he hates and loves it. He keens softly and Barsad only holds him tighter. His hole is looser around his fingers now, stretched carefully, and he manages a third finger into that soft warmth. It makes Robin moan out, nearly wanton as he is slowly winding up as Barsad twists his fingers leisurely, takes his time and explores carefully.

“Listen to you, baby bird; do you want to come?”

He does, desperately, but he seems sure that this will not be enough. He lifts his hips, trying to grind his cock against Barsad's body, the friction driving him on. He stops and yelps in surprise when Barsad smacks his hip sharply with the hand that is not buried inside of him.

“No. This will be enough. You are going to come for daddy just like this.”

He decides that it will be. Days without coming, days of being worked up and stopping. This will be all that his baby bird needs, and it will make it all the better, will teach him to trust Barsad to know his body more, its needs, will train him to associate this thrilling pleasure with obedience as he should. Pleasure is Robin's reward for eschewing his past. It draws him even closer to Barsad.

Robin whines but he obeys, not wanting another stinging smack on his hip. He hates reprimands and avoids them at all costs. That he is so disobedient towards this is only a sign of how much he fights it. How much it needs to be done.

Robin shakes his head; his forehead is beaded with sweat as he tells him that it isn't. That it just isn't enough. It will be. He is more patient than Robin, and it is he who is in control of this. He will not give in to Robin's quiet begging.

“P-please,” his voice wavers and there is so much uncertainty, “please daddy.” He stammers out the name as he does each time. Barsad is proud of him for it, but he must learn that it is not a magic word, that it will not automatically get him his way. Still, he rewards him with a rougher grind of his fingertips against his sensitive nerves and he cries out sharply, nearly keening as his body tightens more.

He's not there yet, but he is close, and something must give. Robin understands that this is all he will get, and he lays his head down, bringing his hand up to bite into his fingers, stifling all of the lurid noises escaping his throat. His pupils look blown, and he cannot control his breathing. He has given in to this with his mind, he knows the rules now, and it is only his body that must submit. Barsad is sure he can. He will not force his boy to lower his hand, yet. Baby steps. He never asks more of Robin than he can give, though he knows full well he asks for so much. He asks for every drop of him, and he expects it given.

It will be given. He only has to coax it out of him, to work him up until he is whimpering softly, his lips bitten red and spit-slick as he twitches, as he is right where he needs to be. His hand grips onto his arm so tightly that there will be bruises there tomorrow, more marks that Robin has left on him to match those forever imprinted on his back.

He thrusts his fingers faster, and Robin's arms are shaking when his knuckles press against the rim of his hole, dragging across the hypersensitive skin as he rubs roughly against his prostate. It is near brutal, and when it is coupled with a command it is enough. He whispers it tenderly as Robin bites down roughly on his own knuckles, nearly screaming past them as Barsad orders him to 'come for daddy'. His entire body tightens and spasms, all of the tension leaving him in a rush as he obeys his daddy, comes all over himself and leaves a sticky white mess between them.


	3. Chapter 3

“That's good, baby bird.” A small smile flashes on his lips at the slight quiver to Robin's lip, the way his face looks relaxed and sleepy after he is finished, after Barsad pulls his fingers from him and pets through his hair with his clean hand. “You liked that, didn't you?”

He is rewarded with a small, shy nod and a needy noise when he sits up with him to go wash up, to go take care of his own erection.

“What is it, greedy boy?” he teases affectionately, able to be gentler when Robin has been so well behaved. His lips are already swollen looking but he bites into the bottom one again and his lashes cover his eyes as he casts his gaze downwards.

“Could—” He shakes his head dismissively and Barsad quirks a brow, curious as to what Robin could be hesitating over after this.

“Tell me.”

It's muffled when Robin says it in a rush of air against his chest. He feels it more than hears it, and he stills, surprised that it has not even occurred to him. But what Robin is asking for is something he has rarely received—the times can be counted on his fingertips—something he has savored each one of like his little bird savors bites of chocolate.

There is no need to conserve them, now.

“Yes, Robin; daddy will give you a kiss.”

Barsad slots their lips together, feeling the chapped warmth of Robin's against his own. It has been so long since lips have touched his. The last was a goodbye, a claiming press of soft lips against his own followed by the slow press of scarred ones. This one is not tinged bittersweet. He cherishes it, the way Robin nearly sinks against him, his mouth so pliant. He is new, but Barsad is happy to teach him this, too, and coaxes him into exploring with tongue until they are both breathless. When he breaks the kiss finally, Robin's head drops against his shoulder and Barsad is certain that he has never seen him look more content.

He guides him into the bathroom and cleans them both up. His own half-hard cock is something he neglects for now. Patience will be rewarded. When they are back in bed, Robin is not content with lying beside him. He scrambles on top of him and latches on, having found a new position that means they are even closer. He shakes his head at the indulgence and strokes through his hair until he is asleep.

For all of the fuss Robin had put up about it, he quickly grows to love when Barsad plays with his hole. Now, when it's mentioned, his ears pink and Barsad sees the squirm that takes him, how he shifts in the off-yellow armchair, the same one Barsad bundled him onto years ago, and he swallows. He scrapes the flats of his hands against his stained jeans before there is a quiet bob to his head, an eagerness that creeps under his skin as he stands for him. He is always eager to please, even when he is nervous, even when he thinks it cannot be done.

Barsad is here to show him that it can always be done, that he will never expect too much of him, in this and everything else he teaches. His lessons are Robin's path, and it can be a cruel one, a harsh one, but it is needed. Everything is needed to be certain that Robin is the perfect gift to them, a masterpiece.

"Be still, my little bird." Barsad squeezes his arm more tightly around him, locking him into place against his chest as he reclines back on the chair, Robin's chest flush against him. His entire body is flexing against him, every muscle quivering, his breathing quick and airy as it puffs from his slackened jaw against his shoulder. Slender fingers restlessly slide up his arms, scrabble at his back when Barsad slides his fingers apart, feels how Robin stretches around the digits worked so deeply inside of him, so tight but so slick now, lubricant dripping down his knuckles, across his wrist, onto the rough wood of the floor where it's soaked up. There is no thought of skimping on it for his precious baby bird.

“D-daddy,” The word comes quicker now, less prompting, and he is given more and more praise each time. Soon, it will not stumble past his lips. Soon, he will only associate it with Barsad, with good feelings, with obedience. One day, he will never associate it with his past.

“Would my baby bird like a kiss?” he asks knowingly, and Robin surges up in his arms for it. He has spent time indulging them both in this and he does not regret it. He does not regret the sweet, eager look that comes over Robin's face when he comes home from a day of reconnaissance and asks where daddy's kiss is. Kisses are where Robin never hesitates. He would wrap up in his arms contently for hours to be held and kissed and cherished.

He licks into Robin's mouth playfully, feeling him open and their tongues slide together. At first, Robin was all puppy eagerness whenever their mouths met, but Barsad has taught him more, now, and he is able to be patient to a point. He is skilled when his tongue slips out to slowly lick across his lips, when he nuzzles against the brush of Barsad's cheek and kisses the corner of his mouth. His little bird has the brush of beard burn on his chin more often than not, now, and he is certain that Robin likes it, encourages it, for he has always enjoyed any mark Barsad leaves on him after learning they are done with love.

“Good boy,” he murmurs the praise as a brush against his lips, and Robin sighs happily, squirms closer, close to his orgasm. He never tries to touch himself, anymore. He knows how much better it feels when daddy takes care of him, now, and even though he is still shy about it, he is greedy, too greedy to let that shyness deny him the attention. He cries out softly and his hips buck when Barsad gives him enough, wraps a hand around him as a treat and lets him finish into it with a long groan of contentment.

They both know that all of this play is building towards something, though it is never spoken. Barsad is not impatient, but he is not completely selfless, either. He can be quite greedy, too. He simply knows that it will be worth the wait, that when he takes Robin, it will be an important moment, a shaping moment, and he waits for the right one.

Training intensifies. It leads to arguments. Barsad is always ‘sir’ during them, and that is how it should be. Robin is learning when the right title is appropriate quickly, but Barsad knows him to be so clever and that is no surprise. Robin is also honest. He tells him that he still can't imagine killing, not like he needs to be able to, not with a gun to the head or a knife to the gut. For all of their isolation from the people of the city, Robin was once one of them. He understands cleansing, that is his path, but the particulars are dragging him down to their level.

Barsad must be cruel. At times, it is the only way Robin will learn.

It is not a difficult thing; in the end, it is simple. His boy is stunningly beautiful, dark features and slight-framed, and so even in his simple clothing he is the perfect bait for the filth of Gotham. Barsad must barely do a thing. He must simply not intervene.

His boy loves the treat of the movie theater. When Barsad asks him if he would like to do something special, it is always the answer. His eyes light up whenever it is a yes, and he does his best to wheedle Barsad into buying them popcorn, persuading that it is healthier than most things available outside of their apartment. He is never more satisfied than when Barsad gives in and places the warm paper bag into his hands, smart enough not to pull a face when Barsad doesn't allow for the fake butter.

Barsad allows popcorn tonight, and his baby bird leans close in the old, worn seats, the bag crinkling in his lap as he licks salt from his fingertips. The reflection of the film reel makes his eyes glow. Barsad kisses the top of his head knowing no one in this side of Gotham will even give it a second glance in the darkened theater, and Robin ducks his head happily, leaning it against Barsad's shoulder. He treasures the moment.

When they leave, his boy is much more talkative than usual, his hands gesturing into the air as they stand under a dingy streetlight. Barsad listens to him and gives him a small smile that only encourages him more, makes his eyes light up like he is inside of the theater again. It is no difficult thing to push him up against the old metal pole and kiss him, taste him. His boy stills in surprise at the public action but he wraps up in him in moments, sinks against the streetlight, the metal still warm from the faded sun as Barsad wraps a possessive arm around him.

It draws attention as he knew it would. 

The flicker of shadows catches his eyes, but he lets it go. He places a light kiss to Robin's forehead and takes his hand, holding onto his fingertips as they take the long way home.

It is not long until they are followed. It becomes more obvious as they move onto streets with long-broken streetlights, the darkness giving the shadows bravery. Seven, if he is correct, all with weapons. Robin is not blind, nor dumb. His eyes flick toward Barsad, knowing that he senses them, too. He only squeezes his fingers near imperceptibly. Robin relaxes. He lets Barsad lead them down an alley, unafraid.

They are followed quickly, vultures swooping and circling down on what they think is prey that is as good as dead. Robin drops down quickly, going for his knife first, something silent not to attract attention. He waits for Barsad to pull his own.

Barsad does not.


	4. Chapter 4

Barsad leans against the alley wall, instead, obstructed by the shadow of a dumpster.  He is not easily picked out, and Robin's eyes widen, too clever not to understand immediately. He shakes his head quickly, knife gripped with whitened knuckles.

“Don't! I can't—”

He is cut off by a nasty laugh, along with the sound of a pipe dragging against brick.

Robin is outnumbered, but he still fights beautifully. He won't strike killing blows, though, no throats slit as they should be, fist to gut, instead, and it is enough to distract but not fell. They rise up against him like a swarm, and Barsad feels a sense of frustration build in him even though he has suspected that this would be the case. They both know that Barsad will not truly let him be killed, and it creates a safe buffer for Robin when he needs to instead be pushed out of the nest.

Barsad must be the one to push.

He shouts, draws attention to himself and steps out of the shadows, lets a few crude words fall from his lips, enough that the attention is quickly drawn from Robin and he is dropped onto the ground, battered, his lip split and his blood dripping down like black ink in the darkness of the alley. Barsad reaches down and pulls his own knife from his boot.

And then he throws it far out of his reach. His gun follows, and Robin's eyes are opening wider in panic when he simply raises his arms, lets himself be attacked, the first punch slams into his throat and renders him near senseless.

Robin knows he will not let him fall, but he also knows that Barsad would easily let himself if it means perfecting him. If it means the lesson will finally break through.

A kick snaps into his gut, doubling him over and scraping his palms into the filthy pavement. He flicks his head up, though, as he struggles for air, because he will not miss Robin when he flies. Not when he shouts in pure rage as the lead pipe comes crashing towards Barsad's skull, threatening to splatter his brains in the alley.

It never reaches its destination. 

His Robin is the storm, the thunder and the lightening, just as he always knew he would be. His knife bites into each man like teeth, and there is such precision to his anger still, such grace, that Barsad is in near awe of what he has created for them.

It rains blood down onto him, and he is only pleased to be painted by such a sacrament.

Barsad stands when it is over, holds his Robin's shaking shoulders, and rubs the sticky red away from his face, shushing him when a sob shakes through him, when he can see how the unshed tears clump his lashes. He tells him what a good boy he has been, and Robin needs the softness. He wraps up around him and nearly has to be carried home, away from the cooling bodies in the alley.

He pushes into his baby bird for the first time that night, because he is ready, because he deserves it, because it is the perfect moment that he has been waiting for. He tells Robin it is coming, that it is his reward, and he believes it, has been trained and now he wants everything. He wants to be full of daddy, wants to forget what happened in the alley and does not understand that this will only cement it. He is no longer this city's. It holds nothing on him, now.

Barsad places him onto his knees as he strokes down his spine. His chest is flat to the bed and he squirms, unsure of the position until Barsad explains that he wants to be able to lie out on top of him, whispering that it will make sure as much as their skin is touching as possible. Then there is no complaint, just the grateful closing of his eyes as Barsad readies him, makes him start to pant softly from the application of lubricant and his fingers, as he does so often, now.

Barsad admires how pretty his boy looks, his hole wet and receptive, shining with slick as he spreads his cheeks with his thumbs. He guides the thick head of his cock to Robin and forces his eyes to stay open. He wants to watch even as pleasure runs through him as he breaches his boy's tight opening.

“Daddy!” There is no hesitation; that has been chipped away, now, there is only his Robin's hands clenching desperately, needing touch. They grasp for his own when Barsad brackets them beside his, lies down over him, pressing him into the mattress further as he begins to so slowly fill him. His Robin finds his wrists blindly then slides over top of his fingers. Barsad lets him lace them together, kisses the back of his neck and tells him how wonderful he feels as Robin is speechless, as he stretches him open further, makes his body accommodate him. He is so slick, so tight for him, and it has been so long since he has felt this that he is nearly as blissful as his baby bird.

When he bottoms out inside of him, their thighs press together and he savors how the thrill of being inside of him is making his own nerves sing, his blood race. He sighs, telling Robin how good he feels inside, asking him if he likes it. The whines that bubble past his boy's lips, and the way he tries to push back for more, tells him everything he needs to know.

His thrusts are not gentle, not rough, they are possessive, taking what is his, what is theirs. His little bird keens for them. His body shakes under him and this time Barsad does not let him cover his mouth. He wants to hear him sing, to hear every little whimper of 'daddy' and 'yes' and 'please' that is slurred out past his Robin's lips as he fucks into him, each thrust reminding him of who he belongs to, who he will always belong to.

“Say it, baby bird.” He reaches under him and runs his fingers along all of the slippery precome Robin has leaked out. There's such a mess and his cock is so hard in his hand. He smoothes his thumb in a slow circle along the slick head of it, and Robin makes a noise like he is wounded.

“Please, please make me come, daddy.” It's panted out breathlessly, and there is no waver or uncertainty, only the assurance that daddy will make it happen, that daddy will make him feel good.

He jerks his cock in time to his thrusts, feeling when Robin reaches his peak as much as he hears it in the low moan, the way his body tightens down and he slumps into the bedding. Barsad laughs softly and kisses his cheek. His own orgasm is close, and he slides out of him, pulling back and jerking his own cock, groaning as heat races through him, as he spills and marks his Robin's ass and back with ropes of hot come.

His own breathing is heavy as he rubs it into Robin's skin. He checks to make sure he isn't sore and only gets a bleary head shake, Robin twisting on the bed and holding his arms up to be held so he can sleep after such a trying day. He lies down on top of him, an extra indulgence. His weight crushes Robin down onto the bed, and he sleeps easily under it, his nails in his back and Barsad’s scent rubbed into his skin.

In the morning, he is greeted by a kiss, an uncertain ‘good morning’; Robin is unsure if it is too much initiative, but Barsad is pleased when he is affectionate and kisses him back, reminding him what a good job he did last night with both of his trainings. They eat breakfast, and Robin's appetite is enough that he's given another helping.

When they are done training, he pushes him down and takes him on the rooftop until he sings for him again, this time planting his come deep inside of his Robin to mark him inside and out. He whispers it into his ear, and Robin is only grateful as he tugs his jeans back up and licks his lips, trying not to squirm at the feeling of come dripping from him and making a mess of his briefs.

When he pulls on his shirt, Barsad grips his chin, fixing cold blue eyes on him. “I will send you out again, today, Robin. If there is trouble, you will bring back one of their hearts, or you will break mine with disappointment.” Robin's eyes flicker, the idea of disappointing Barsad is worse than any punishment given.

Robin does not come back with one heart. He comes back with two. He is nearly shaking as he holds them out in offering. Barsad lets his pride show in his eyes, and Robin closes his own in relief. There is nothing about his boy that is not his, anymore, nothing that is not theirs.

He is ready for their arrival, and he will be beautiful for them. He will raze this city to the ground. Barsad takes his gifts and goes to clean him, brushing his fingers through his hair until he sleeps, as he marvels that his baby bird is more perfect than he could ever have hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://relevantlyirreverent.tumblr.com/


End file.
